


We Could Be Immortals

by mymindsofar



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Books, Bucky as an older brother feels, Bucky is in college, DEEP SHIT, Fall Out Boy (mentioned) - Freeform, Family Feels, Funerals, Hospitals, Humor, I was shocked too, I'm realizing how useless these tags actually are but I really can't come up with anything helpful, M/M, No Sex, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve technically still in high school, death and discussion of death, does that count as underage?, kinda depressing topics, particularly Vonnegut, platonic romantic who knows
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-09 05:45:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4336151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mymindsofar/pseuds/mymindsofar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> And I ask myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was, how much was mine to keep. </i>
</p><p> </p><p>Bucky Barnes doesn't plan on opening a new chapter when he steps into Steve Rogers hospital room. But past the facade of a terminally diagnosed teenager is way more than just an ending life, and Bucky finds himself re-evaluating the concept of time and affection in someone else's last days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day One, 6:34pm

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine.

Fucking hell. Leave it to Bucky to get lost in a hospital twice on the same evening.

            If only there was an actual obstacle to overcome, but it’s really nothing but rooms and floors and pissed off nurses and the occasional doctor making their way through ghostly hallways. There’s not much liveliness in the building. Well, not that there’s much in it usually; the residence mainly consists of sick people, and there’s a room full of dead people in the basement, even if everyone can close an eye on that one.

            Hospitals are _incredibly_ depressing. And Bucky hates that, because he hates feeling down which makes him hate being here (he hates too many things, too, which bothers him). But Clint just had to get himself beaten close to a collapsed lung by picking a fight _after_ leaving the ring today. Bucky is sure Clint didn’t do more than usual, simply jabbed and poked where he shouldn’t and found a sore spot in Rumlow. Bucky had barely changed back into his stuff when he was pulling them apart. He launched a few good punches at Rumlow himself because the occasion to do it without boxing gloves was too fucking great to pass on. His bruised knuckles look great next to Clint’s face, though they don’t hurt as much to look at.

            Clint isn’t usually that eager to get his mug deformed, but to Bucky it seems, lovers and psychopaths probably do well with each other. For him at least, having a fight with someone he loves isn’t a reason to jump in front of a train, nor has it ever been. Maybe Bucky is just too cold inside to succumb to such a high sentiment. He isn’t a brick without feelings; but the big kiss finales and sacrifices made in the name of love in movies and obligatory curriculum readings in high school always threw him off. He made it a habit to focus on the more important things and grit his teeth in class and for his paper to please the teacher.

            Ever since Bucky and Clint reunited after the whole ambulance and ER story, Clint hasn’t stopped complaining, although that had to be straining with the broken ribs. According to nurses and Bucky’s personal opinion, he should just stuff it completely, so when Clint tired of moaning, the fucktart picked up texting instead. Bucky can’t shut off his phone because he doesn’t want to worry his parents unnecessarily (in case they haven’t heard his voicemail about being in the ER because of Clint), so he’d rather suffer through caps lock waves of ‘AGONIZING PAIN’ and wait until Clint’s parents relieve him from this freak show. He’ll be late for dinner, especially if he has to camp overnight should he fail to find the exit.

            Knowing Clint a bit too well, the guy surely expects Natasha to burst in anyway. She’s nowhere near dumb enough to fall for such a cheap trick, but maybe the lesson will be learned better once he figures how dumb this entire scene has been.

            Bucky caves in on a chair in the hallway. He’s not about to text Clint back for that matter, there’s a high horse that needs to be taken care of, though Bucky is pretty sure he doesn’t belong into the aisle with the private rooms.

            Doesn’t change the fact that he probably should just look at the map, but he’s fine with being away from everything for a couple of minutes. He was supposed to spend the weekend with his family, but his parents got some old college friend visiting New York on last minute so all that’s left is his little sister, Rikki. And not that he’s not perfectly content with that, but at this point rewatching Adventure Time and going to Prospect Park are not enough to entertain a thirteen year old anymore, and that is what he dreads the most.

            His coffee is noticeably cooling in his hands, so he takes a few sips, ignoring the sour aftertaste he hates so much. He hasn’t been too hopeful about it anyway, as long as it serves its purpose. It’s incredibly quiet over here, he actually enjoys it, save for the buzz of fluorescent lights and some machines wheezing in the distance. It’s refreshing after a whining shithead filling his ears with his suffering and keeping Bucky’s phone perpetually buzzing for the past hour. It technically still would be, but for the sake of saving battery and successfully ignoring Clint, Bucky changed it to silent.

            He skips Clint’s messages to see if someone else wants something, but for better or worse, he’s completely left alone. Then he’s pacing around again, walking in a circle in the stretched hallway. He’s switching between looking at the phone and the tiles on the floor, keeping his mind unoccupied. Eventually he beats his _Flappy Bird_ highscore back seated, then rewinds the whole process. He’s savaging the moment, knowing full well he has to hit the road to head home all too soon. Home is the opposite of this half dead place. And he’s not so sure that he hates it here all that much, at least no one asks him about his future plans, unless he’d suddenly decide to switch from Poli-Sci to become a nurse. He’s more likely to become involved in a string of accidental serial killing than do actual good in this field, so medicine is better off without him.

            “Your pacing is killing me,” someone complains, jolting Bucky out of his little thought bubble. The voice is surely weak, but most of all annoyed. Heading for the direction of it, the machine sounds push into the foreground and he’s met by a pathetic sight as he enters the room of the source. He assumed it was empty, but it could just as well have been.

            The bony figure sunken into the mattress makes a flat impression with the paper white skin and dark eye bags. Bucky’s not about to be insensitive, but the guy would look great as a horror movie prop the protagonists step on for a stupid jump scare. Bucky comes a little closer just to assure himself he hasn’t mistaken the origin of the noise.

            “C’mon, say it. A sight for sore eyes, right?” the boy on the hospital bed continues, each word crawling out slowly. He’s hooked up to plenty IV’s and his breath leaves him inclemently while he does his best to stare Bucky down. It might be the breathing tube and the dazed look ruining it for him.

            “Sorry to disturb,” Bucky says quickly, because the sight isn’t exactly pleasant. He can’t make out the age of the guy in front of him, but either way, it’s pretty fucking young. The tiniest part of him wants to get those needles out of his skin and pull the tubes away, because that just isn’t fair. Kid’s gotta be out there seeing friends, playing video games, jerking off.

            Bucky turns on his heels and is about to head out when another scratchy mewl leaves that tiny body on the mattress. “Wait.”

            _Fuck_. Refuse the dying wish of a man and you’ll be haunted for eternity. Bucky doesn’t blame the thought on superstition but on an easily bothered conscience. Comes in the same package of having a clumsy sister who crawled out of her crib when he was supposed to be watching her at seven months, and all the other times she got herself into trouble when he’d been supposed to be there. Bucky sighs, trying to be rational, because he sure as hell shouldn’t be in there, but before he can reason with the boy, he’s cut off.

            “Can I use your phone?” the boy tries casually. He speaks so slow, Bucky might just punch a wall. Every syllable is dragged like nails over a chalkboard.

            “Gonna call your girlfriend?” Bucky teases, trying to get the downer out of the room, knowing the risks of embracing him back with open arms with that kind of comment.

            The kid doesn’t take offense when he doesn’t have to, what a relief. “Yeah, yeah.” He reaches out, the pulse measuring clothespin in his index finger stretching towards Bucky, demanding the phone in his hands. “Easier than to ask the nurses,” he adds.

            Bucky strives forward again and hands it over reluctantly. What kind of impression do 40 unanswered messages from Clint make on the first glance? Guy doesn’t seem to mind, just dials and then puts the phone to his ear.

            “Hey, hey. Yeah, I know you’re worried. Couldn’t get my hands on a phone until now, sorry babe.” Bucky distances himself shyly, realizing his mistake. “But, I don’t have much time left, y’know? Remember that promise we made each other?”

            About now, Bucky wishes there was a fucking trapdoor somewhere. He looks at the kid, who’s trying to fight something, and Bucky isn’t entirely sure if it’s tears. Then the kid turns to the window. “I know this sounds selfish, but I don’t want to die without ever having had…” The guy side-eyes Bucky, who is already exploring the spectrum of red shades he can pull off on his face. And suddenly, the blond boy laughs. Stupidly so, because soon enough that turns into a cough and Bucky’s is about to hit the nurse button. A raised hand stops him, and Bucky listens to him struggle before the guy grabs for a small item by the bed stand and puts it into his mouth, presses down and inhales as deep as he can. Shit, dude got asthma, too?

            Bucky’s confused face seems to be enough of a motivator to make him worthy of an explanation.  “Just needed you to stay a moment longer. Sorry,” the kid says, apologizing earnestly and Bucky gulps. Now he desperately wants to get going. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

            Bucky sucks in air through his teeth, exhaling back into the hallway which he reached by now. “Yeah, uh… Sorry dude. About your thing.” That’s borderline pitying, still pulling stronger towards sympathetic, which couldn’t offend no one.

            “Steve,” the guy offers. Right, fuck. This expects a response, so it’s personal now. Bucky’s gotta give him something. They won’t see each other again, that gives him the right to say _any_ name that might come to mind, but he doesn’t because… well, because. It’s probably that fucking half-smile and the fact that the guy looks vulnerable. Well, he is, one more needle might just knock him out, but that’s not it. More _open_? It’s a lonely people thing, they have that look where you want to offer them a truck full of puppies and enough ice cream for a lifetime and forbid them to be sad again. The least he can do is offer a name.

            “Bucky.” he responds, accompanied by a vacuous hand gesture to play down how defeated he feels. Too much of this might dig his early grave. _Oops._ He presses his lips together. He could make up a shitty excuse about having to run down to Clint and maybe he does, but he’s also about to organize a private Puppy Bowl for… _Steve_ , right. It’s Friday night and he’s all by himself. That just makes it so hard to abandon him.

            “That’s like, a dog name. Your parents hate you that much?” Bucky grits his teeth and reminds himself that Steve gets sick person discount and probably didn’t intend to be rude. On a scale of one to straight down abhorrent, how insensitive would it be to reply ‘go to hell’?

            “My grandpa’s name, _Buchanan_. And for everyone else it’s James.” Now he shared the whole story either way, _fantastic_. What’s this bonding atmosphere right there?

            “Does that make me special?” Steve asks.

            Bucky scratches the back of his head, shrugging simultaneously. “I gotta get back.” He feels bad for deflecting the question, even if it was mostly rhetorical. “You sticking around for long here? In this department, I didn’t mean…” Bucky laughs awkwardly, but when his eyes meet Steve’s, he chokes on the new sadness he finds in them. Or rather, the resignation.

            “That part… I didn’t make that up. Got a few weeks at best.” He chuckles weakly. “Chemo and radiation can’t stop it from spreading beyond my lungs and I’m currently so hooked on meds I don’t feel shit anymore, but…” He seems to stop because Bucky is facing the floor absent-mindedly, allowing the information to be processed. “You don’t care, right?” Steve asks, hurt accompanying the croaked words. How is this guy even holding up right now, even managing coherent speech? Bucky can’t be sure that the guy is not shitting him again, but he has eyes to rely on, and the sight before them reveals itself as incredibly sad and frustrating.

            “How old are you?” Bucky asks instead of going into the accusation. Maybe he’ll take it as a sign that he does.

            “You gonna determine on that how much pity I deserve?” Steve shoots back, and even though the sharp words are dulled by the slow speech, they sting just as much because he’s right. And he’s as sensitive about it as Bucky had imagined. No one likes to be looked down at and belittled, less even with a terminal diagnosis. “Grave for a seventeen year old, oh the horror. Poor boy, struggled until the very end. Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.” Bucky can’t help but to smile at the last sentence.

            “Vonnegut?”

            “What do you think I’ve been up to all this time?” A look to the side reveals plenty of reading material on the bed stand which Bucky didn’t notice earlier with the main attraction in the room. There’s even more on the window sill. Bucky wonders how many of them Steve finished, and which will never be touched by him at all. The thought alone knots his guts together and presses down on his throat, as if he was the one with the trouble breathing. An unfinished story, that’s what he’s going to be.

            “At least you got them all lined up so neatly. I lost my copy of Slaughterhouse when I moved to the dorm,” he admits, chuckling to himself.

            “You can have mine,” Steve suggests. Bucky shakes his head almost violently, forcing on a smile because the gesture is so sweet and yet dripping with the bitterness of what’s inevitable.

            “Dude, you’re not gonna deny me _anything_ , not now that you know what’s up,” Steve croaks. Bucky offers him a distressed smile, because Steve is skilled in aiming for the weak spots and make sure it’s unpleasant. Maybe the disease made him this way, when he had the choice between sulking in his awful fate and crushing the eggshells. “It’s right there.”

            Steve stretches a frail arm out to point at a pile near the feet of the bed, and Bucky finds the red cover quickly. It got dog ears on way too many pages and Bucky cringes lightly at the sight. It physically pains him to see a book treated that way.

            “In fact, take whichever you like. I’m still in the middle of _Going Postal_ but, well, fuck it.” Steve gulps a little heavy and turns his face away. Bucky looks around him, taking a deep breath.

            “What’s it about?”

            “Some guy who escaped death and became a postman. It’s Pratchett.” _Ah._ Bucky looks at all the books around him, at the chaos that seems to be lingering and remembers that he’s mostly free tomorrow. He’ll have to find something to do for Rikki, but then he remembers that no one is taking care of Clint’s dog at the moment, and that might be her chance to prove she could have one, too.

            “I can come by tomorrow. I’ll bring a few cardboards and we’ll sort these out. The ones you want your family to keep, the ones you wouldn’t mind giving away.”

            “You won’t come back.” Steve says like he’s convinced of it. Bucky feels hurt, knows he has no right to. How many times has Steve been lied to about his condition? That he’s going to get better, that he will be healthy again and live a little less complicated? Are kids still bullshitted this way? Still depends on when he was diagnosed, but…

            Bucky eyes the watch on his phone. “You gotta trust me on this one, because visitor’s time is running out, and I still got someone else to take care of.” It’s hard to say that out loud, not feel affected by the hurt in Steve’s face. Goddammit. Feeling bold, he reaches for Steve’s hand, the one without the pulse measurer and squeezes it a little, ignoring the abnormal coldness.

            Before he can change his mind, he grabs the book and walks out, closing the door behind him. He doesn’t look back; doesn’t want it to overwhelm him even more.

            Bucky takes a quick cheating look at the map and runs down corridors and staircases until he gets to his destination. Clint’s parents greet him in the hallway and quickly thank him, while their son lets out a sigh of relief upon seeing him, even though he isn’t Natasha. Bucky has to be quiet because the patient next to Clint is already sleeping. He makes it quick; hugs him fast to get out of here, because he’s definitely seen enough.

            “Gosh, Buck, you look like shit. Had a nice walk down the morgue?” Clint whispers jokingly. He seems better, even with only a few hours of rest.

            “Nah. Gotta go though, sorry. I’ll get back to you tomorrow,” Bucky replies, saving him the details of the encounter with Steve. Clint nods, Bucky grabs his things and leaves.

            He takes a couple of breaths before he starts the engine. Bucky can’t imagine going back four years and put himself in Steve’s situation, or go back to the very start when Steve must have shown symptoms for the first time. What a shock that must have been to family and friends. Not that it’s ever okay for anyone to die too soon, but there’s a particular tragedy when it comes to kids. Bucky wouldn’t know what to do if he was diagnosed tomorrow.

            He luckily misses the rush hour and reaches Brooklyn almost effortlessly. His mother greets him with a kiss and warms up something for him while he falls into an easy discussion about boxing and Clint’s recklessness with both his parents. Rikki seems to be upstairs already, but Mom tells him he’s fine if he goes up now, since she’s probably reading or secretly still using her phone anyway. She always knew when Bucky was still up, which _he_ only found out after he moved out. While the microwave still heats up his food, he jumps up the stairs to get to Rikki, who instantly shuts off her phone screen and fakes a sleeping position when he comes in.

            “Aw, you gotta work on that,” he comments, and she’s out of the bed within a heartbeat to give him a tight hug, which he reciprocates heartfeltly. She’s breathing into his neck, he’s got his eyes tightly closed, savaging the familiar smell of her skin that screams home and security ― all he needs right now.

            “Is Clint alright?” she asks, and Bucky nods. She’ll be the first to draw him a ‘get well’ card, even if Bucky personally would cross out the ‘well’ and replace it with ‘brains’.

            “He’s just an idiot,” Bucky confirms, looking at her. They’ve got the same nose from their mother, and he’s bumping them together and crunching his face into an ugly grimace, still able to make her giggle that easily. He fucking missed her, she’s getting way too old for his taste.

            “And you?” he wonders.

            She looks around. It’s dark in the room, and he only sees what his shadow doesn’t cover; the table, her school bag and naturally the piano with sheet music on it. She picked it up after Bucky dropped it and the instrument simply moved a room further.

            “People still suck. Darcy gets it.” Bucky grins. Of course she does, Rikki’s piano teacher and formerly his own is about as cynical as himself. Even though it might be hard to see that happen to Rikki too, he’s glad that she knows how to walk through life with a healthy amount of wariness.

            “I get it, too, Rik. Guess what else sucks?” he offers, viciously excited for the disappointment that will inevitably follow her question. He can allow himself to toy around a little with her feelings.

            “What?”

            “You’re going back to bed, and I’m taking your phone with me downstairs.” He sees the change happen instantly, from amused to wounded in a split second.

            “Bucky!” she screeches, launching her fists weakly against his chest.

            “I’m kidding. Don’t stay up too long, though. Love ya.” He kisses her forehead before he rises up fully, draws the covers back for her to jump under and tucks her back in. He doesn’t care if she’s too old for that.

            “Love you too, Buck.” she responds in a mumble.  Just to spite her, he kisses her smackingly on the cheek and chuckles at how she turns away from him, playing hurt. His hand ruffles through her hair and then he’s out, shutting the door behind him slowly.

            He reaches downstairs met by the smell of potatoes and something savory, kissing his Mom on the cheek before sitting down to eat. His father asks more question about college, about boxing and whether he’s got enough money; Mom listens while she absent-mindedly watches the TV, too, wearing the thick framed glasses and parroting Dad’s gestures when he’s doing them again. Like the one where he nods emphasizingly at every word, or the way he’ll twist his hands to come across matter of factly.

            Bucky eats up and carries his stuff upstairs, throwing the gym bag in the corner for now and changing into something comfortable to sleep in; he showered back at the gym. There’s something soothing about his toothbrush waiting for him in the bathroom, because he’s still wanted there, even while he’s half living on his own by now. Not that he’s exclusively proud of his waiter job and his shitty campus dorm, but it’s bearable and gives him at least some financial independency.

            After finishing up in the bathroom, he drops nearly dead in his bed that smells like Mom’s favorite detergent, not the cheaper stuff he uses when he does laundry himself. _Home, home, home._ He picks up Slaughterhouse Five from the bag and goes through it, opening the pages with the dog ears, fascinated and simultaneously scared by the kid from the hospital. Most of the time, it’s clear which sentence or paragraph caused the crease on the page. He skims forward and back again, and swallows hard when he returns to Vonnegut’s introduction, runs his fingers over the soft page and straightens the pleat.

_And I ask myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was, how much was mine to keep._


	2. Day Two, 10:29am

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... yeah.
> 
> Can we all agree that I'm an idiot? For those who are just now joining this train wreck ride, this is probably irrelevant, but I fucked up a little _after_ revising. Steve still has a couple of _weeks_ left. 
> 
> I know, I know, I'm counting the days. But if you read the tags, well... Sorry. There is really nothing to spoil because this is not Hollywood, where everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.
> 
> As always, mind the tags, and ignore the mistakes as best as you can. Still unbeta'd.

Bucky walks downstairs slowly. He’s still wearing jogging pants and a washed-out Pulp Fiction shirt, eyes struggling to open properly. Last time he looked at the clock last night was around five in the morning. And he’s supposed to be a good example for Rikki.

            He follows the delicious smell of Saturday breakfast, but also like an attempt to make up for the missed family time. There are pancakes stapled on the counter, his father waits patiently for his coffee, motivating the machine through annoyed speech. Since probably no one expected him at this moment, he’ll have to beg for his own cup, too.

            Rikki comes into the kitchen, giving him a foot-kick in the butt and he moans, ruffling through her bob-length hair. She shrieks and pushes him away. He won’t play nice if she doesn’t, that’s just how it works. She throws her arms around his waist, while Bucky turns to his Mom and kisses her on the cheek.

            “Did anyone tell you today that you are a blessing to mankind?” he wonders, and she hums happily.

            “Glad to hear that. This grump here only worships the coffee machine,” she jokes, nudging at Dad. She finishes up on the pancakes and sets her tea cup aside to ration a portion for each of them and turns off the plate with the bacon. Rikki carries them over, gets the maple syrup and the bacon pan, waiting at the table for the rest of them. Dad’s coffee finishes and Bucky is next in line. He turns it on but follows the rest of the family to the table.

            After getting through half his stack, Bucky introduces the Clint situation to the table. “Rik, if Clint is fine by it, I’ll get Lucky here over the weekend. He’ll give you some instructions. If you handle it well, Mom and Dad might go to the shelter with you. How does that sound?”

            A brown eyebrow of Winifred Barnes rises up, chin moving as she chews. She responds with a shrug, knowing that within a week, Rikki will most likely lose interest in the whole thing. On the other hand, maybe it will do wonders and they will actually adopt a pet someday soon. Dad just stays out of it, knowing his opinion doesn’t interest anyone much. It would mainly concern the fur and vacuuming, anyway.

            “Fuck yeah!” Rikki exclaims, giving Bucky a loving look, who in return almost chokes.

            “Isn’t it wonderful,” his mother throws in, “that Rikki will gladly clean the table for us today.” Rikki’s mouth drops open, ready to protest, but she gives up that thought very soon after, knowing that the prospect of getting a dog might be at stake otherwise, so their Mom starts talking again.

            “Bucky, are you having dinner here? We persuaded Nick and Maria for home dinner, and Darcy stays after classes, heard you guys haven’t talked much lately.” _Heard_ , as in, _Rikki is a fucking snitch._ But she’ buried deep enough in her seat, she’ll get payback later.

            Bucky nods reluctantly, knowing how _fond_ Nicky and Maria are of him, as well as looking forward to the prospect of seeing Darcy again. “Sure, I’ll try to be on time.” His mother and Rikki exchange a look, and he’s most likely to never get rid of their assumptions. If he really _were_ to date his old piano teacher only a _few_ yearsolder than himself, he wouldn’t keep it a secret. Only that she never felt for him the same way, and he’s fine with that. She felt that for someone else, which is also fine. NBD.

            Looking at the clock, he’s reminded by today’s plans. _Shit, Steve._ “Hey, can I get some moving boxes? We still got some, right?”

            “Something wrong at the dorm?” Dad asks, slightly concerned but more focused on his pancakes. It’s as if this guy senses negative shifts instantly, but happy moments pass him by. Not necessarily as if repulsed by emotions, but Dad directs a lot of stuff inwards. Wasn’t there something about picking your parent’s worst habits? It seems inevitable.

            “No, just gotta carry some stuff. Nothing like that,” Bucky replies, smiling. An imaginary set of knuckles massages his sternum brutally, making sure he can’t properly breathe. A part of him wants to see Steve again, the other is currently passing out from severe anxiety. Every second counts.

            He doesn’t want his family to notice how nervous he actually is, so he gives a lame explanation about someone at the dorm who needs to relocate his stuff or something. He’s secret about it. He can’t tell them that he’s going to see a dying boy he made a thoughtless promise to the other day.

            Dad helps him find the cardboard boxes and Bucky puts them in the trunk of his car, heading out for the city with a promise to return at seven.

            He goes see Clint first, feels guilty because his mind is putting his friend second place, but at least Clint doesn’t have an expiration date on his forehead, he has the rest of his life to get on Bucky’s nerves. Clint complains that his phone that died last night and his parents forgot the charger. It’s the only reason the annoying messages stopped.

            “It’s probably for the better,” Bucky remarks.

            “Oh, fuck you, man.” Clint spits, irritating the older gentleman enjoying his newspaper in silence. The room is empty aside from them. The paper ruffles as Clint’s neighbor flips the page.

            “I still got someone else to see.”

            “That where you were last night? Making out with the chicks in the Infectious Disease department?” Bucky suppresses a chuckle. Clint’s humor is too dark for a place like this, since everyone adds a spoonful of sugar to make sure everything is nicely coated.

            “What if I made out with a _nurse_?” Bucky suggests. Clint shakes his head critically.

            “Kinky, but I’m hardly convinced. Setting my bets on the janitor,” he replies. Bucky would punch him if any kind of contact wouldn’t pose a threat to his current state. There’s the ribs, the nice accessory on his face and his broken arm from landing a bit roughly, but other than that, he’s pretty lucky. Speaking of which.

            “Right. Who’s taking care of your dog right now?” Bucky plays with the edge of the folded boxes in his hands.

            “Fuck!” Clint exclaims. Of course he forgot, and there’s a chance Lucky gave the carpet a nice new touch.

            Bucky doesn’t let his disappointment show. It’s no wonder Nat got a little tired of nursing him around, the guy knows nothing about taking responsibility. “I’m calling Natasha.” Bucky says. “Yes, _I’m_ doing it.” Clint’s expression is pained.

            “Can’t you drive over and do the routine? Please?” Clint whines. Bucky is close to considering it, but she and Clint share the apartment, even if Nat most likely stayed over at a friend’s place after their fight.

            “That’s what you deserve, Clint. You guys need to sort it out when you _can’t_ use the pity card, so please be rational for once.” Bucky takes out his phone. His sister’s name pops up on his screen to remind him of something else.

            “I also told Rikki she could take care of him for the rest of the week if I got your Yes. I’ll just assume I do.” He confirms Rikki’s text.

            “God, please don’t let her kill him.” Bucky tilts his head to the side.

            “Mind your own life first,” he threatens.

            Bucky finds Nat in his contacts. “Is the janitor prettier than me?” Clint asks when Bucky is at the door.

            “No offense, but I’d rather make out with Quasimodo at this point,” Bucky tells him, and he hears Clint resign with a moan as he leaves.

            Nat picks up within half a ring. “Yes?” she asks, sounding sleepy. She can sleep and stay asleep at any given time, nightclub or rooftop, floor and probably even wall. But in the same breath, she’s up if need be. Daughter of a Lieutenant, what did he expect?

            “Hey, sorry to bother. Is it possible for you to take out Lucky?”

            As he predicted, Nat is awake in a second. “The fuck did Barton do?” she concludes quickly. It wouldn’t be the first time Clint sought trouble and found it pretty quick. For Natasha, using the last name is a sign of adoration. Calling him ‘Clint’ would have gotten Bucky worried that she truly did hate him.

            “He’s okay right now, at the hospital.”

            She hums casually. Just as Bucky anticipated. “Tell him I’m still mad.”

            “I don’t think he forgot.”

            “I’ll take care of the canine,” she promises.” He hangs up after they say their goodbyes and he stops in the middle of the hallway, reminded of how much he hates hospitals after all. If only he could remember how he got to Steve yesterday. If he were to walk up to the reception to about a Steve, who apparently reads a lot and is dying of some sort of cancer, it would probably result in a friendly request to leave or with security enforcement if he wasn’t so lucky. Awesome.

            He’s cursing his missing sense of direction once again, since there are _three_ private room sections scattered around the place. All things considered, he could have thought about memorizing the way at the very least. It takes a lot of memory sparks (like that particular sign next to that blue door with the idle hospital bed next to it) to get there eventually, and he assures himself twice that there’s three seats against the wall on the left, which he occupied the day before. He walks to the room furthest to the right, same as yesterday, but is startled by the back of a blond nurse in a blue scrub sitting by the bed. He decides to come back later when she suddenly rises up and he’s awkwardly running in his way too noisy Chucks, now one hundred percent fool.

            “Bucky?” She has a soft voice, like all nurses probably should.

            He hisses ‘fuck’ under his breath, turns back around and kneads his hands. Why does she know his name? “Sorry, I didn’t mean to violate any rules around here just…”

            “It’s okay, I’m Sarah, Steve’s mother,” she says, and he approaches him with her hand reaching out. Long, pale fingers, reminding him of delicate spider webs. Her nameplate suggests Rogers. Well that made it just ten times worse. The good part maybe is that both get to see each other enough. She looks tired. Something in him wants to hug her. When has he ever known to be so fucking sentimental?

            “I’m sorry to… I’m sorry that… _Fuck._ ” The last word escapes him quieter, unintentionally. He can’t keep his potty mouth on lock even for once. “Can you at least tell him I _wanted_ to see him?” He want to disappoint Steve more than he already has been. This is just getting more and more complicated.

            “Suit yourself, I was going to let you in,” she replies, a frail smile on her pretty lips, like it’s going to break away any moment. Yet somehow, of the two of them, she seems like the stronger one. Bucky plays with the thought of leaving, because he still has the chance to go. This guy is none of his business, he wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place. If it wasn’t for the goddamn screechy Chucks. Or for Steve’s impressionable attitude considering he’s halfway pushing up the daisies. _Fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck._

            “You gonna clear up that mess in there?” She points at the boxes in his hand. “I’d be thankful, he doesn’t let me do it.” That smile makes a reappearance as Mrs. Rogers steps aside, and Bucky takes that as a deciding point. _Fuck_ , he physically can’t turn away. If he does, that’s turning away for good. And he’s an asshole for thinking that just because he won’t be able to talk to the guy for _long_ enough that he shouldn’t do it at all. And Bucky can pretend it’s not the end for a while, he’s not bad at that.

            “Thank you,” he says, forcing a smile of his own. Curses keep running through his head as he approaches the sound of beeping machines and finally sees Steve before him. Those dark circles seem a permanent marker of a tiredness with only one possible relief. He’s so fucking pale.

            “I promised,” Bucky throws in before Steve can comment on his entrance, holding up the boxes and unfolding them quickly. “Alright, buddy. What sections to we have? Which ones would your family would like to keep?” he asks, because that seems plausible for starters.

            “Just Ma,” Steve utters throatily. Bucky doesn’t get into it, he’s gonna throw up if he does. Kid doesn’t want his pity, so he won’t give it to him. But really, _just Ma?_

            “Easy then. She gonna keep any of these?”

            “Some are hers.”

            “Good. Anything you wanted to throw against a wall?” He looks around at the mess. If it wasn’t so clinically white and yellow, he might have liked to sit down and read here, too.

            “A couple.”

            “Gimme one.”

            “The Island of Last Truth.” Steve offers. Bucky never heard of it. He looks through the piles, but it’s harder when he doesn’t know what he’s looking for.

            “Small book, somewhere on the sill,” Steve suggests. “But it’s worth it.” Bucky decides that there’s going to be a box containing Steve’s recommendations only. He can write them down later or… Yeah.

            Bucky finds it after a while and puts it into the box that originally said ‘Rikki’s toys’. He strikes it through, adding ‘Things that Fucked Steve Up’ underneath with a sharpie.

            “How romantic,” Steve remarks when he sees it. He coughs, at which Bucky tries not to freak this time. He’s clutching some other book until it’s over. Steve’s voice is a lot worse after that.

            “Never got past the first, too boring,” he says, and Bucky looks down at what he’s holding. _Harry Potter,_ third book. Actually his favorite, he’s read it three times at least. All seven are on the sill. Must have been a present, then.

            “Really? Never wanted to be the Chosen One?” Bucky asks. He’s playing it down now, because he dressed up as Harry on Halloween three years in a row. Rikki used his cloak last year for Hermione.

            “Seriously?” Steve asks snappily. Bucky realizes his mistake. It clearly depends on the definition.

            “No children’s books ever impress you?” Bucky tries instead. Steve seems to think about that one.

            “Never enjoyed reading much before my diagnosis,” he admits.

            Bucky just goes for it. Fuck the eggshells. “When did it happen?”

            Steve seems to prepare his lungs for some exertion. “I was twelve. I collapsed with a shortage of breath at a birthday party. They found fluid in my lungs, told my Mom I was at stage two. Before, everyone just thought it was asthma, which, well, I also have.” Steve takes a few breaths. Bucky hates himself for making him talk that much, even more for wanting him to keep doing it. He wants to know about this guy, why is that not allowed?

            “Did you read ‘My Sister’s Keeper’?” Bucky asks, hoping not to seem like an asshole right now. He did read it, and he kind of liked it. What’s more, he likes that it didn’t end how most cancer stories do.

            “I dare you to ask me about ‘The Fault in our Stars’, asshole. Books aren’t all that interesting when they’re some cheap simplification of what you’re going through.” _Right, not the best approach._

            “Sorry.” Steve’s head tilts and his eyes roll back.

            “Don’t _apologize._ ”

            “I’m s…” Bucky smiles to himself. “What’s that island thing about, anyway?” Meanwhile, he holds up a different cover for Steve to sort in. It lands in the ‘Give Away’ box.

            “A parable about how we cope with truth,” Steve says. They continue with different books. “Quite educational, I think, but not that well-known.”

            “You’re such a hipster,” Bucky mocks. He’s picking a few at a time from the window sill, watching a few nurses gathered outside for a smoke outside, laughing. It’s March and quite chilly, but they seem to do fine just in their scrubs. Maybe the nicotine has their blood rushing. He misses that feeling.

            “And you’re exclusively normal. So what?” Steve retorts, cocky all over. Bucky looks at Steve’s protruding collarbones, more prominent with his awfully crooked shoulders. It looks like he’s been constantly coughing. When has he been outside for the last time? He holds up the book covers for Steve, who just points weakly at the assigned box without much talking. There’s plenty going into the recommendation box.

            Bucky doesn’t notice how lunch time comes around. Steve’s mom brings him food. It looks even worse than a regular hospital menu; as if someone had already chewed it through. Bucky can’t, and doesn’t watch how Steve forces himself to eat that, because it must hurt, just like talking does and probably everything else. Bucky still forces him to talk, he’s that much of an asshole. He _likes_ it when Steve talks. He starting to like _Steve_ , and it’s simply not fair.


	3. Day Two, 2:17pm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I mention _regular_ uploads? Yes, yes, well... I'm having fun revisiting the project. 
> 
> Fun fact: first longer story I ever actually finished. There's also the last chapter of 'I'm So Over You' (Part 1, yes it's gonna be a series... at some point) waiting for me, and I _should_ publish that one, too... Ehhh... Don't give up on me, folks, my heart still races every time I upload something, as foolish as it sounds.
> 
> But still, I don't want to withhold this in any way, soo... We're still at day two, hehe. Let's say I'm gonna publish the rest of Day Two today and then I'll do the rest of I'm So Over You. Is anyone still reading this? CHRIS EVANS' BUTTCHEEKS. 
> 
> I should have your attention back now. Enjoy reading!

The canteen is crammed with visitors; one giant mess, reminding him all too much of college. He completely suppressed that until now, and it’s only Saturday. It’s a fault of his, becoming too engrossed with just one thing until it shoves away nearly everything else. Steve is swallowing him whole.

            He’s too invested. Even the tiniest bit of the tuna sandwich is nowhere near enjoyable because he keeps thinking that he has to return to Steve. It’s a selfish thought, he usually isn’t like that. Selfish doesn’t work with a little sister around. He doesn’t even have a right to take that time from Steve. Or maybe his motivation isn’t all that vile. All that Steve would want in a situation like this is not to be alone. Why is Steve alone in the first place? A guy like him must have friends. Bucky decides that as long as Steve doesn’t explicitly tell him to fuck off, he’s going to stick around. Just for the sake to provide some company, _relief_ if he can think of himself that high.

            Mrs. Rogers is laughing across half the floor, and Bucky slows down his approach to Steve’s room. He was with Clint just now, checked his phone and made sure Lucky isn’t kicking the bucket anytime soon. _Unlike others._

            Steve’s mother is doing most of the talking, but he doesn’t make out exact words. Sometimes, her voice is replaced by Steve’s lower basses, weak and hardly reaching Bucky at all. He gives them the bonding time they need, sitting down on a chair outside to text Darcy.

            _Bucky: Hey! Looking forward to see you again._

            It takes a few minutes for her to respond.

            _Darcy: totes. that must be the reason for you avoiding me the past few months. ;)_

_Bucky: College. Cmon, you should know._

_Darcy: wait til u get a real job. levelling up is less fun irl._

            She attaches a photo of herself pouting and an orchestra in the background in a big auditorium. There’s hints of a black piano lid and keys behind her, meaning she’s at practice.

            _Bucky: Sounds tough, buddy. Beethoven’s 9 th?_

_Darcy: funny!! no, the magic flute. u were so close. ;(_

_Bucky: I’ll try harder next time._

_Darcy: so you and i r talking again?_

_Bucky: I’M SORRY! Didn’t mean for that gap to happen. Can I make it up to you somehow?_

_Darcy: movie night. we didnt do that in a while, im free monday around six._

_Bucky: Awesome, can’t bear all the guilt anymore._

_Darcy: you dont seriously think im letting you off the hook like that?_

_Bucky: I was hoping for student discount. :)_

_Darcy: too bad huh. gtg ;**_

Bucky puts his phone aside. Steve and his mother are still talking, but this time, he gets a little closer to the door.

            “I took you to Coney Island when you turned seven, remember?” his mother says. There’s a mixture of chuckle and cough coming from Steve.

            “Ah, I guess it’s time to be nostalgic,” he sighs, or as good as he can imitate it without parting from a vital organ. “I found out I was scared of heights, not so great at the time.”

            “Obviously. But I enjoyed that day with you,” she says warmly.

            “Ma! So did I!” Steve replies in defense. “It’s not like it wasn’t great just because I threw up. I enjoyed every one of my birthdays.”

            Mrs. Rogers sighs. “I love you, Stevie,” she says, voice cracking lightly. Bucky shouldn’t be here. It’s wrong for him to even consider somehow belonging into this world, no matter how awkwardly parallel it runs to a melodramatic Hollywood movie right now.

            “Love you too, Ma,” he replies. There’s silence, then movement of feet. Bucky is about to return to the nonchalant position in the chair when Mrs. Rogers busts him crouching next to the open door.

            “There you are,” she says. Her bangs cover up her reddened eyes, slightly. He rises up, embarrassed and highly self-conscious. “Bucky… He told you, right? I don’t think this is fair towards you…” Her laugh is bitter as it echoes. “Take care.” She adds like an afterthought instead of saying what’s truly on her mind. The sugar coating, of course. Maybe she’s reassuring herself when she doesn’t say it out loud, maybe it’s further from becoming reality. And that’s a parable all on its own about how people cope with truth. Where is Steve’s father at the time? How does she deal with this on her own? What does it feel like to pick out a suit for her own son to die in?

            Then she leaves down the hall and disappears. Bucky walks inside slowly, insecure.

            “How come you’re all alone?” Bucky spills, a little overwhelmed from feelings he isn’t allowed to feel. They’re not his, he isn’t part of Steve’s story. Although if he was, the book would most likely suck. And he’d probably be a useless character in it, anyway.

            “By choice, pretty much. I didn’t want them to see me like this, so… We got on my last day at home, celebrated a little. An awkward goodbye party, I guess. I _asked_ them not to come here, it’s not because I was a loser without friends.” _Was_. As if he considers himself gone already.

            “I didn’t say that.”

            “It’s what the question implied.” Steve’s sharpness is staggering with the amount of IV’s and cocktail of feelings that must be rushing through his system at this point. Although that means he’s not as bad as he could be. He seems okay aside from the slight daze in his eyes and his wheezing breath. And that gives hope. Naïve hope, Bucky figures. Hollywood brainwashed happy end expectations, _bullshit_ and Bucky knows it.

            Bucky could still shove it all behind him. But what’s the fucking point if he does? Taking Steve’s death as an inevitable fact and all that there is to it eradicates the purpose of life itself. Well, assuming there is a purpose. Bucky wants to know more about him. He also doesn’t want Steve to die just yet. Is ‘not ever’ a possibility? _God fucking…_

            Bucky considers apologizing again, but Steve would take it as pity. “You don’t want to put them through this so you decided cutting ties would be easier for them. You _martyr_.” Bucky sits down on the chair next to the bed that appeared there after his mother’s visit.

            “I just did what was right. And because I can’t stand being belittled,” Steve explains, playing with the pulse measuring thing on his arm.

            “I noticed. We gonna wrap this up over here?” he asks, pointing vaguely at the books. Steve nods. The box that Bucky secretly pronounced his own becomes considerably full over time. Bucky opens a book to read out of it, which draws a sort of alarmed noise out of Steve. Bucky nearly loses his shit again. But instead, Steve wants Bucky to read more, says his voice sounds nice. Steve looks at him the entire time, eyes more alert than they have ever been, and Bucky manages half a chapter of _Picture of Dorian Grey_ when Steve mumbles something to him.

            “Hm?” Bucky looks up, still engrossed with the story. Lately, he hasn’t had much time to read, and it’s refreshing to sink back into it.

            “Ever kissed a guy?” Steve repeats, and Bucky feels his cheeks redden. He’s not foreign to different sexualities and his parents don’t have much of an opinion on it, just accept them as facts and leave the matter be. He isn’t drawn negatively towards it, only a little confused when it comes to himself.

            “We haven’t even _gotten_ to the gay parts yet.” Bucky deflects, pointing back at the novel. He tries casual, but amazingly fails because Steve is an obstinate shithead. Bucky tsks nervously. Steve tilts his head and carefully repositions himself. Not that he can move all that much, because the strength required causes his lungs to riot almost instantly.

            “Aww, c’mon. I’ll take it to my grave.” Steve jokes, and Bucky tenses.

            “Not funny.” Bucky replies stiffly, feeling an uncomfortable sentiment drilling his ribcage and squeezing what’s underneath. Steve smiles, and his lips, pale and chapped as they are, still get Bucky’s ache to expand and intensify as they curl into a half smile. He abso _fucking_ lutely hates this guy.

            Mostly because he caves in. “I did, once,” Bucky admits, because he realizes that it isn’t going to travel far, considering the whole situation. And who cares anyway. It was a stupid thing.

            “Who?”

            “Give me a break, Steve,” Bucky whines, pretty convinced that won’t make him let go of it.

            “Really? Seriously, _now_ I’m curious. You’re going to leave me with a cliffhanger?” _Who’s leaving who here?_

            “I’m starting to hate you,” Bucky complains, running his hands over the title of the book. Realizing soon enough that it’s not gonna make Steve falter, he continues. “Alright! Fuck… I had a bet with my friend, we went to a gay bar. I talked up the least scary guy available and within less than ten minutes he French-kissed me and touched my junk through my jeans.” Bucky sucks in air through his teeth. “How about that?”

            “Fuck, now I feel like I haven’t lived at all,” Steve mutters. It’s probably not intended, but Bucky feels like Steve is making him feel responsible for his misery. He gets an impulse. A weak one, like when he decided to jump from the highest diving board at the swimming pool. After spending two minutes speculating whether it had been a good idea to come up there at all, he did jump. In that moment, he’d forgotten all the other thing he should have been doing; keep a locked position, hold his breath, close his eyes. He’d hit the water with a cruel splash burning his entire chest area and legs, punching the air out of his lungs with the impact. Only shock releasing a dose of adrenalin brought him out of the water by himself. It’s almost identical to what he does next.

            He leans forward and presses his lips on Steve’s, who does as little as flinch at Bucky being that close for the first time. Steve smells like hospital from this up close. A mixture of medicine and copper comes with the taste of his lips and it’s not all that pleasant. But he can’t give Steve a perfect moment, so this one does just fine. Steve’s pulse goes up at that, and Bucky nearly forgets that there’s a breathing problem between them so when Steve whimpers into his mouth, he draws back instantly. The book in his hands drops on the floor.

            Bucky curses and kneels to flee from eye contact right now, or forever, if that’s possible. With temporary scopophobia he searches for that damn thing before he sees something else that draws his attention. Sketchbooks hoarded under the bed, pencils and other tools scattered underneath, as if someone had carelessly thrown it down there.

            He rises up and instantly realizes Steve is pretty aware of the situation.

            “No, don’t…” he pleads, but Bucky reaches underneath and pulls out a loose sheet with headphones on them. They don’t have a brand, maybe they’re not even real, with all those sci-fi gadgets. But they sure as hell _look_ real.

            “Fuck, Steve, these yours?” Steve bites his lip, and Bucky tries not to pay mind to the apparent color in his lips. Something about it makes him proud. He should feel guilty for endangering his condition. Back kneeling, Bucky grasps another few sheets from underneath the table, filled with doodled creatures, faces, landscapes, quotes. There’s plenty of them. “This is amazing,” Bucky says honestly.

            Steve is messy, the lines don’t have clear beginnings or ends, but the focal parts are always perfectly captured. It resembles the blur effect of a camera, making apparent what he enjoys drawing most. There’s plenty of everyday objects and animals, and he senses a recurring pattern quickly.  

            _Clocks_. All kinds, wrist watches, wall clocks, displays, timers… Hint much. Bucky sighs and sits back down. “Is that what you did while you were here?”

            “Put them back.” Steve bids, expression cold. Bucky sees sketches based on pictures next to them. It’s obvious from a camera-induced blur he tried to recapture and the angles, since some are selfies, too. There’s a guy with dark skin smiling as he reaches out for a slice of pizza. He has a tooth gap, and looks oddly congenial based only on the sketch. But Bucky doesn’t push it and puts them back where he found them, as neat as possible.

            “Sorry,” Bucky says, licking his lips. He does let go of it, reminding himself of the situation just seconds prior. There’s something comforting, now that he _did_ it, and Steve smiles all of a sudden.

            “You just kissed me.” he whispers, almost like he can’t believe it.

            “I should have asked first,” Bucky mutters, blushing again, weakly hiding it with his hands. He feels fucking flustered. That’s almost new, if he forgets the times when he was fourteen and Darcy touched his fingers to show him how to properly press down on the keys.

            “Thank you.”

            Bucky meets Steve’s eyes, lashes hanging low and heavy. But he seems at ease, not like he’s suffering all too much. Maybe the doctors are wrong? But yeah, Bucky, _idiot_ , of course he looks alright. Who knows what shit they fill him with, and there’s still the breathing tubes and God, it must be what it looks like under a car hood. Interconnected pieces, and if he were to take out one thing, the entire system would collapse. He completely relies on this to carry on, to live another day.

            Maybe, maybe it would be better if he didn’t have to. If he could just… pull the plug and let it go. What is life worth if it mainly consists of suffering?

            Steve dozes off soon after that, without Bucky sharing his dark thoughts with him.


	4. Day Two, 5:51pm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last one for today. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Bucky tries not to feel too bad for the kiss, after all, it seemed to be fine by Steve. He keeps imagining, that maybe at a different time, in a different situation… That’s not his right. Bucky stays by his side as Steve sleeps (technically, this is not allowed, but Steve’s assigned nurses are either well-informed or not heartless enough to chase him out). He hopes the kid wouldn’t mind too much.

            It’s too hard to admit straight-up that he’s afraid Steve will go when he’s not there, because he also has no right to be with him when it happens. But Bucky is scared as hell.

            Whatever happens within him when he looks at Steve, he denies it himself. Out of fear to be hurt, but also to hurt _him_. It’s hard to say whether any kind of feeling between them is mutual. Steve is lonely, probably has been for _months_ , and then Bucky comes in and out of necessity for human interaction, Steve doesn’t have much of a choice. Bucky could have been anyone, but he’d _want_ it to be him, because there’s something about the guy. Something.

            Bucky is plagued by the questions in his head, but they all can’t be asked, because Steve’s time is running out. He wants more. It’s arrogant of him to even stay there.

            As quietly as he can, he wraps up the boxes and opens a new one for Steve’s sketches, puts them inside neatly and re-labels everything accordingly. By placing it back under the hospital bed, he hopes Steve won’t mind too much. Maybe his mother would appreciate it. Bucky picks up the little parts of Steve and puts them in coffins of their own. How thoughtful of him.

            Bucky isn’t part of this. He shouldn’t be. To Steve, he’s a random figure shortly appearing in Steve’s life. His screen time is too short to actually build up anything, they haven’t even properly acclimatized to each other yet. It always takes ages for Bucky to make friends.

            After, he decides it’s time to go. He doesn’t wake Steve. He also doesn’t want to meddle with what doesn’t concern him. Not anymore. He can’t let this get to him. None of these problems are under his control and he can’t grow attached _now_. Bucky shouldn’t care about this in the first place, but _of course_ , of _fucking_ course he couldn’t have just turned away and left it at that. He should learn to use his heart less.

            And Steve, who’s responsible for isolating himself makes Bucky feel like he doesn’t have the right to go. How is that fair? Bucky can do what he pleases. Technically, nothing binds him to the sleeping figure on the bed, wheezing with every breath that is forced in and out of him. But nothing pushes him away from him, either.

            Steve has a slight crook in his disproportionally large nose, unfit for the rest of his face and even more prominent with the tubes leading out of it; long eyelashes; lips, full and pretty but not girly like Bucky’s; the delicate jawline that looks as frail as the rest of him. Bucky looks away, catching himself at staring for too long. It must be creepy. His eyes fall on the phone underneath an unsorted book.

            Bucky respects privacy. It’s peeking from underneath the cover of a concept art collection from Star Wars and Shakespeare’s _Much Ado about Nothing_. His moral conflict crawls over him slowly. Steve played his cards well that very first night when he forced him to stay. Pretended he didn’t have a phone and fake-called someone. Bucky watches Steve as he reaches forward, looks behind him to assure no one is looking when he wraps his hand around the device. It’s cold and he’s turned it off. Bucky gulps.

            He absolutely shouldn’t.

            _This is wrong_ , he reminds himself, feeling a bubble wrap around him and capturing him in the adventurous blood rushing experience that comes with doing something forbidden. He’s nervous, and had he been hooked up the Steve’s heart rate monitor he’d been screwed at this point, but for now, it’s only Bucky who hears his heart galloping in his ribcage. There’s barely twenty percent battery left. The lock screen appears and Bucky is about to lay it down, before curiosity grabs him again and points him back at it. He could get _some_ answers, Steve would never have to know. Bucky glances over to assure himself he’s still asleep.

            People don’t go much out of their way for passwords. He’d hacked Clint’s Facebook at the second try and posted about ten childhood pictures, which his friends appreciated much. The only one not laughing was Clint himself.

            Bucky naturally didn’t have Steve’s life history, or this wouldn’t be happening in the first place, but clues aren’t as hard to find. People leave traces, consciously and not so much. He quickly reaches for the box with the drawings and tries to find something that unites all the quotes, but it’s a mix of different famous people, and about a lot of different things. He finds interest again in the clocks, and suddenly it clicks; they’re all set to the same time. 04:07. Bucky can only speculate, but nothing seems to even remotely make sense. A special time of the day, but what happens specifically at 04:07? On top of that, is it am or pm? Could it be time of birth? Or maybe… That’s also a possible date. 4th of July.  Instead of deducing the meaning, he tries the code on the phone, and it magically opens. Bucky won’t praise himself, this is still incredibly wrong, but he’s still a little proud. The first thing he checks is the calendar, and sure enough, that’s Steve’s birthday. Independence Day. Fuck, the guy won’t make it even close to eighteen.

            With unlocking the screen, he also set off a bomb of silent messages, five different people at least and one group chat.

            He could still back off. He doesn’t.

            First of all, he checks out ‘Sam’. There’s a few short sentences, all sent out over the past two months, usually with some distance between each, like he’s holding back. Bucky scrolls up to see more involved conversations, but doesn’t read them. He starts at Sam’s monologue, the most recent texts.

            _Sam: Hey man. Sorry for this crap._

_Sam: It’s important that you know that I really appreciate you, that I love you, and that I will continue to do that, no matter what happens._

            (Bucky knows what’s going to happen very well.)

            _Sam: I’m worried about you. Call me if you need company. A text is fine, too._

There is one from a much later date.

            _Sam: Sorry. We shouldn’t have done that._

Bucky can only guess what happened, but since it’s the last message, Bucky deduces it’s related to Steve wanting to be alone and not having that wish granted. It soothes Bucky a little, means Steve got the right people around him.

            The other messages are quite alike, aside the latest from ‘Peggy’. Her text is long, quite so, and Bucky doesn’t feel like he should be reading it. But neither will Steve.

            _Peggy: I absolutely understand that this isn’t something you might enjoy reading when time is that short –_

            (Bucky likes her straightforwardness already, wishing he could be that brave.)

            _– but I can’t help but consider my own feelings about this matter. For the record, I liked that kiss. I’ve been waiting for it but I waited for too long. All that talking and now I’m losing you, it’s awful. It’s alright if you don’t feel like this at all. Just making sure you know I did._

_Peggy: And still do._

            Her profile picture is beautiful. She’s dressed casually, a baggy hat covering the top of brown curls and a deep red coat with the collar up. Considering it’s March outside, the picture must have been taken recently. Her lips are staggeringly red and her smile shines through the average phone camera quality. Jealousy burns him up whole, and he feels childish all at once.

            Bucky’s pulse isn’t raised from excitement anymore. He’s angry, he’s frustrated. Keeping his bottle sealed, he shuts the phone back down and puts it back, then fishes for his leather jacket and leaves everything behind. He knows shit about Steve. Sam did. Peggy did. The rest of them did. They will all know what to say when the day comes (he doesn’t want it to come, not yet, not _ever_ ), make people laugh and cry with their stories about the great Steve. And he is great, even Bucky knows that. But all he got to see is the little that remained of him. And if that makes him feel so strongly, what would it have been like if Bucky had known the guy he was before?

             He’s reminded of the kiss, the whispered ‘ _thank you’_. Maybe that was misinterpreted by him. Just Steve getting what he couldn’t get from the right person. Bucky is a placeholder.

            With the keys in the engine and his breathing pattern calming down, at some point later in his timeline, he’s seated in the front seat of his car. The thought of Rikki and dinner with Darcy brings him back to a rational world where all makes sense. Where he can sort his feelings and control them. He turns the keys and the engine roars alive. He’s an idiot for driving out right now, but he can’t stay there much longer. Naively, he also hopes he won’t get into the rush hour peak somehow.

            But of course, of course he does. The Neighborhood plays way too loudly inside his car. It shuts his brain up, that’s good. He almost misses the turn to Clint’s neighborhood.

            He lets himself in with a spare key, and the Australian Shepherd greets him cheerily.

            “Your owner is one sunovabitch.” Bucky tells him as he sinks onto the floor and lets Lucky jump at him, nudging his head into Bucky’s chest and declaring him all his admiration, just for being there, even if he’s not Clint. “Bucky and Lucky. What do we say the two of us just marry and have a happy life together? I mean, I know it’s controversial and stuff, and I won’t do anything you won’t like, just…” He can’t believe he’s having that kind of conversation with a dog right now.

            He sighs as he prepares Lucky for transportation to his temporary new home. “Friendship marriage, how about that? You and I buddy. Your owner and his girlfriend can sort out their shit themselves.” He sinks on his knees again. Lucky approaches with a hint of concern. Bucky pulls him closer and breathes into the soft fur, and Lucky doesn’t protest at the human hug, even if Bucky usually isn’t so touchy around the dog. It’s the best Bucky has right now. But Lucky grows tired of boring caresses pretty quick, jumping out of Bucky’s lap, demanding a change of actions. Bucky sighs tiredly at him and closes the nearest backpack he found with everything Lucky may need. He’ll call Clint later, since he didn’t even say goodbye. Later, later, later. Everything needs to fuck off for a while.

            “Rikki is way cooler than your idiot owner,” he assures Lucky once they’re back in his car. He pats Lucky’s head. “You cool with spending some time without the guy, though?”

            Not that Lucky has much of a choice. He feels interrupted, looks at Bucky with sunken brown ears. Bucky doubts he understood him. He looks at his phone. Rikki is shopping for groceries. He hopes he’ll be able to surprise her in the parking lot.

            His timing is at its best. Five minutes he waits outside the Walmart before Rikki recognizes his car and runs towards him with the shopping bag. She tears the door open to greet the dog, forgetting the groceries at once. Lucky is eager to please with the loving greeting he’s been given, panting and nudging as best as he can.

            They come back right on time, as their parents are pulling up the driveway with Nick and Maria on board and Lucky welcomes them all with some heavy barking. Bucky tells him to stuff it.

            This time, he doesn’t miss out on helping his Mom with dinner (as long as Dad is entertaining the guests and he isn’t asked about his plans for ten years ahead), and eventually, as they’re in the middle of wrapping everything up, Darcy pulls up a couple houses past them and Rikki opens the door before Darcy even gets there. They chatter, and Bucky doesn’t hear it over the fume hood, but eventually he feels Darcy pulling him into a tight hug from behind.

            “We already considered that you got cold feet and didn’t want to see me, after all,” she complains. Bucky grimaces at the accusation. “But there you are, playing housewife.” She grins. “No offense, Winifred,” she adds warily, and Bucky’s Mom doesn’t take none.

            “I thought about it,” Bucky lies, winking at her. He’s been looking for something normal, for the routine and the things he knows, ever since Steve fell asleep. Right, no thinking about him. _Later, later, later,_ but hopefully not at all. Also, Darcy is here. She’s there despite five months of him trying to avoid her. Well, that’s when she announced she was going out with that Ian guy, and Bucky was too much of a selfish and jealous idiot to keep talking to her. That’s part of the problem; he’s way too immersed when it comes to people, and possessive. Did he mention picky yet?

            “Mooooom, is he allowed to sleep in my room?” Rikki wonders, appearing from the hallway. And this is something she learned from Bucky; lower lip pushed forward, brows furrowing until they build a perfect ninety degree angle in between and the soft head tilt. “Please?” she emphasizes. Mom isn’t about to say no.

            “You know the drill; I see that room covered in a fur blanket when this is over, you’re not getting one yourself. And who walks him in the morning?”

            “Me,” Dad suddenly announces when he emerges from the living room. “Hey Darcy,” he adds upon seeing her.

            Rikki clutches to Dad warmly. Nothing gets her out of bed earlier than needed, Bucky knows the feeling better than anybody.

            The food turns out fantastic. Mom gave it her all, and he’s really, really hungry after that tuna sandwich he tortured himself to eat earlier, and later. Darcy leads the conversation, talking about something that happened lately in her private classes and somehow, she winds up talking some about Ian, never minding that their two other guests have no fucking clue. They don’t mind, though. There’s something about socks and then a comment about how Bucky always had them lying around. Rikki looks at him with clear irritation, as if he missed something crucial. He’s not paying all that much attention, Darcy and Dad mingle perfectly together and entertain the rest of the table, which is surprising. It’s the weirdest and most delightful combination; a lazy, bantering, laid-back musician and an uptight businessman with little cheer in his nature. Bucky tries not to think of anything; least of all tubes and monitors and bright lights and…

            “Everyone finished?” Mom asks, happy that everyone eagerly emptied their plate. Bucky refuses a refill and gets another one of Rikki’s looks. ‘What?’ he mouths at her, and after excusing them, she drags Bucky upstairs with her. Nick looks at them with his permanent scowl, so maybe he’s smiling on the inside.

            “What the fuck is wrong with you?” she asks him once they’re out of earshot. He’s about to scold her for language when her expression dares him to do it.

            “Why?” he plays dumb. He’s really not in the perfect mood to talk about stuff.

            “You totally missed Darcy making a hella ambiguous comment about socks in front of our parents _and_ their friends. You zoned out for real.”

            “Sorry,” he mutters, falling directly on her bed. Maybe he shouldn’t; she didn’t do a great job making it this morning. “Was it that obvious?” he asks.

            “Uh, yeah.” She drops next to him, touches his shoulder, concerned all of a sudden. She removes one of the longer strands falling into her face with his free hand. “You look like you’ve seen a documentary on global warming,” she remarks.

            Bucky chuckles floppily, looking at her. “Yeah, watched it _twice,_ ” he shouts, faking outrageousness. “It’s called ‘We’re All Going to Die’.” He gulps. His tongue was quicker than his brain.

            “Don’t be an ass, I’m already asking. Spill or I’ll kick you out.”

            “But it’s so comfyyyy.” He drags the last vowel and emphasizes his words by sinking his head into her pillow. She pushes him back over, now he’s lying on the side, face turned at her.

            “I know it’s not Darcy. Is Clint gonna be fine?” she digs further.

            “Well, duh.”

            “Gosh, you _asshole._ Are you really gonna make me drag it out of you?”

            “Aww, just let go then.”

            “But I want to know.” 

            “How is that my concern?” A pull. This time dragging him closer to the edge of the bed. She meant that part about kicking his ass out.

            “You’re so full of shit,” she whines.

            “I still haven’t talked much to Darcy.” He’s so focused on dodging it although he really, really wants to talk. He hasn’t told anyone about Steve yet. He feels good keeping it that way. It may preserve him somehow.

            Rikki huffs. “Yeah, fuck Darcy right now. Tell me what’s wrong.”

            “Well, if she’s not with Ian anymore…” he tries further. She rises up quickly and slams the door behind her. Well played, Barnes. It’s not going to bring him anywhere, so he rises up and opens it again, just to see her right in front of it with her phone.

            “His name is Steve,” Bucky says, sitting down next to her. Rikki knows that he’s… confused, has been since that fucking kiss at the gay bar, and even _that_ she knows about. It’s too early to talk to her about _some_ things, but she’s not dumb or a ray of innocence, either. He made sure of both. So her cool interest now only reminds him how precious she is, lacking judgment whatsoever.

            “He’s smart as fuck, kind of adorable, he likes Vonnegut –” he nods at her with a significant gesture “– and he’s kind of dying of cancer.”

            All the anticipation in her dissolves at that. “Shit, Buck. Where do you find these people?”

            Well, first of all, he doesn’t _look_ for them.

            “I got lost at the hospital, we started talking … spent today together, and… That’s it.”

            “That’s _it_?”

            “He’s got an expiration date!”

            Rikki looks at him with disgust, and he knows he’s saying that because selfishness helps against sinking into this.

            “You _fucker._ ” He doesn’t even try to stop her from cussing. He sometimes catches himself doing it in front of her, it’s only fair. “You like him, right? And, well, I guess happy ever after is out of the question but… You’re really gonna be that asshole that leaves him hanging like that?”

            “I don’t think he feels anything alike.”

            “As a _friend, you massive ego._ I doubt he would have endured you if he didn’t like you even the least.”

            “Thank you, I should always come to you when I feel like pushing my self-esteem.” Both chuckle, and she nudges him.

            “Don’t be an idiot. You don’t believe in that Ever After bullshit anyway, why now?”

            “Because it’s scarier when it’s not all theoretical. It’s not even, I don’t _know_ , there’s just not enough time to find out.”

            She snorts like a know-it-all. Maybe she is, she’s a genius of her own kind. “Oh _please,_ is there ever? You really got the chance to open up, you know. Guess it sucks to say but, in the end no one will give a fuck. He’s running on low battery, he doesn’t mind spending the remaining time with you, he endured you all day… He even likes that philosophical bullshit you fap to. Oh shit. He’d be the _perfect_ husband. Does he have a brother?”

            Bucky isn’t ready for that much black humor yet, so he pushes her with his weight.

            “It’s your comfort zone,” she states coolly, pushing back. “You’ve known Nat since pre-school, I came from the same place you did and… You and Clint met at the fetus boxing club.” Bucky remembers the pictures; two boys with chubby cheeks, happily wearing their first boxing gloves. But Rikki is right. Sure, acquaintances come easy to him, he’s open for chats and small talk, easy to work with and likes helping out. But in reality, his only friends are the three she listed.

            “I’m being really selfish, huh?” he asks.

            She nods eagerly. “And ignorant. He’s an entity with feelings, too.”

            Bucky hums after a poetic pause. “You’re great, Rik.”

            “Like _I_ don’t know that.”

            An idea comes to mind. He doesn’t shove it off immediately.

            “Wanna tag along tomorrow? To the hospital?”

            “Clint is there too, right?” She leans her head on his shoulder.

            “Sure.” he replies.

            “Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case, I love Rikki Barnes.
> 
> Technically she's Peggy's and Bucky's daughter, but Bucky also had a sister after whom Rikki was named, sooo... I just really don't like shortening it to 'Becky'. No offense to any Becky's out there, it's just one of those pet-peeve names. Sorry folk.
> 
> Where was I? Yes, Rikki Barnes. So much Rikki Barnes. 
> 
> My personal favorite fancast? Kristen fucking Stewart.
> 
> Visually something like this, but with a little bit darker hair:


	5. Day Three, 12:06am

Bucky’s stomach twists when he wakes up. A whisper of panic throws him out of the sheets.

            _Could Steve be dead?_

            The worst is, there’s nothing to calm him down. He doesn’t have a phone number or _anything_ but a name and an assigned room in a hospital. And a gut feeling, mostly one of anticipation, that makes him feel even worse. He’s learned a lot about Schrodinger’s Cat recently.

            He gets dressed and knocks at his sister’s door to wake her up. He ruffles her hair and tells her to get ready drawing the curtains back, then heads down for breakfast and coffee. Not that he’s able to stomach anything at this point, but Rikki most likely will. The toasts jump out and Bucky lets them cool, hearing footsteps coming down. Only then he notices how quiet it is in the house. Looks like their parents went out again. When he sees Lucky nowhere around, he ties the knots and takes a sip from his coffee.

            Rikki gets downstairs shortly after, hugging him lightly before getting to her toast. He finishes his coffee, burns his tongue and tells Rikki to come outside whenever she’s ready.

            “A minute,” she replies. _Fuck_ , he has to drive carefully, he can’t let himself get distracted by possibilities. He starts the engine, and Rikki is out in a heartbeat. More like a hundred heartbeats, considering the rate _his_ is jumping at. She doesn’t say anything the whole drive. Maybe it’s for the worse.

            Once there, he locks the car behind them and runs up to the building, knowing quite well where he needs to be, where he _has_ to be. He can go see Clint later. He hates himself a little for making an almost stranger priority, but that almost stranger could be…

            He’s hasting up the stairs and turns left, runs to the end of the hallway and exhales in relief.

            Steve is there. Not a sight, for sure, but his eyes are open and he makes an attempt to smile when their eyes lock. Heat rises into Bucky’s face.

            “I think we shouldn’t disturb you for long, but…” Bucky tries. Somehow, he wants to keep it casual while all he wants is to crash down and apologize for running out on him the day before, and maybe say even more stupid things. But he’s way too fucking scared.

            Steve dismisses him with a hand gesture. Bucky understands that things _aren’t_ well. Not at all. He’s scared to touch Steve even the slightest. His chest implodes agonizingly slow, but sure enough eventually, his heart will combust at this rate.

            “My sister, Rikki. _Rebecca_ , the dog names we come up with on our own.” He chuckles nervously and Rikki gives him that look that she _must_ have learned from Natasha. His friends are a disastrous influence on his little sister. “She just… wanted to meet you,” Bucky finishes. Steve nods, mouth opening but emptiness crawling out. Bucky jumps at the glass of water this time, handing it over quick. Steve doesn’t complain now.

            “Glad you came back,” he croaks after a few agonizing gulps. Fuck, right. Bucky is _not_ about to bawl right there, despite the burn in his eyes, despite his constricting air ways and the need to be anywhere but here. Window doesn’t look that high all of a sudden, and _should_ something happen, the hospital is – coincidentally – within reach. He considers it and he _wants_ to, but he won’t make any of this about him. He swallows the swelling feeling in his throat back down as best as he can.

            “Is someone going to kick us out? Just nod or shake your head,” Rikki asks. How come Bucky never wondered about that? Just sunk right into the situation without thinking rationally whether he was allowed to even be there. Typical.

            A shaking head. “Do _you_ want us out?” Rikki asks again. The same motion, once again.

            “See, Buck? Nothing to worry about.” Bucky scoffs and is about to deny he was worried in the first place when she elbows his sides. It stings just the slightest bit. Steve’s head wanders, finger pointing somewhere close to them. Bucky follows the direction and sees the boxes. He forgot about those yesterday.

             “You want me to bring them?”

            A light swing to the left and right, the corners of Steve’s mouth curling up.

            “The…” Bucky comes closer. The last one on top are Steve’s drawings that Bucky stacked inside. The ones he was worrying about.

            There’s barely a syllable coming from Steve’s mouth, but he sees the way his lips move. ‘Thank you’, he mouths.

            “Ah…” Bucky goes red again.

            “What’s that?” Rikki asks, turning and hovering over to the boxes.

            She opens the one at the top and gasps. “Dude, _no way_.” she exhales. Bucky smiles. “How the _fuck_ –” she looks over to Bucky, who raises his eyebrow disapprovingly “– _Jesus_ , this is ridiculous.” She doesn’t say more. Bucky thinks the unasked questions. _Do you want to be an artist? Is that something you wanna make a living out of? You should continue!_

            “They’re pretty great. Sorry that I…” she puts her hands back to herself. Steve doesn’t mind either way. He sighs, and Bucky feels hurt seeing him struggling to talk.

            “You can keep what you like,” he forces out. Rikki smiles back warmly, taking them out and placing them on the bed table in front of Steve. She looks through them, asking questions and talking for almost twenty minutes just about his drawings. Bucky paces around a little awkward, leans in to take a closer look at some. There’s some birds on watercolor paper Steve inked and colored. He’s done a few more animals in this style. This guy is capable of turning an IKEA shelf into an aesthetic. The watercolors he hasn’t seen all that much before, but even there is a clock spilling its contents, hands at 04:07. He inked every last edge of the cogs that are falling out.

            Rikki takes a few of those that don’t look all that personal. The animals, some studies. She apologizes for every last one she wants to take with her, and Steve brushes her off over and over. Instinctively, she must realize that the clocks aren’t for her, and she says Sam, the guy with the pizza, looks pretty cute. Sharing most tastes with your sister comes in handy with things like Fall Out Boy, not _boys_.

            “Maybe you should display some at your funeral,” she suggests bluntly. Bucky fears he said something wrong, but Steve’s face stays unchanged. He shrugs.

            “No, really. Like this one, for example.” There’s another study, with more people, including Sam. He even recognizes Peggy, smile perfectly captured while she ruffles through the hair of another guy Bucky doesn’t know. “Those your friends?” Rikki guesses. Steve nods.

            “Please do. They’d be happy.” Bucky notices Steve’s eyes redden. He’s sure Steve doesn’t want to break down with Rikki in the room.

            “Uh, Rik. Maybe we should go see Clint now?” Rikki quickly understands, smiles sympathetically at Steve and even touches his foot lightly.

            “Yeah, sorry bud. It was nice seeing you,” she says, perfectly honest. Bucky follows her out when he hears a whimper back from the bed. ‘Stay’, Steve seems to say. Rikki nods encouragingly.

            “I’ll tell Clint you’ll join later.” Rikki promises and leaves with the drawings.

            Bucky stays frozen for a second. Now they’re all alone again. And Steve is crying. He shouldn’t be, he shouldn’t waste his strength on something so trivial. “Hey, hey… Shit, fuck… Sorry. Look I got cold feet and I just wanted… She didn’t mean to be so…” Steve’s look is enough to shut him up. He places the chair closer to the bed and sits down, seeking touch all of a sudden, seeking to comfort Steve and make this fucking madness stop. He finds Steve’s hand, freezing and stiff, unused. If the sketches had been piling up down there… when was the last time he drew something? Why did he give it up? Was it too exhausting, or maybe…

            Steve will never be a professional artist. People won’t come to his galleries, or buy his graphic novels or… His pictures will never tell any stories. The hands on Steve’s clock will slowly stiffen, as well.

             “… Scared.” Steve mutters, voice so far away it takes Bucky a second to register the sound actually being there. There’s something in his eye. A brick, maybe, or at least what his useless existence comes down to. Look around: he’s the one that can’t do shit about what’s happening, except for making sure the train wreck is as colorful and messy as can be.

            “I know, Yes, I know,” Bucky says nonsensically, because he doesn’t know, “ _Shit_ … No. I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t… You shouldn’t be going through this.” He entangles their fingers. Bony and white against buffy and sore at the knuckles from beating up that douche, _just_ _two fucking days ago_. “I wish you wouldn’t have to,” Bucky adds, voice breaking. _Fuck_. He’s losing it, he’s too close, too open… This is a stranger, this is someone he hasn’t even gotten the chance to know fully yet. His eyes sting like acid’s been poured over them.

            Steve looks over at the monitor. The string that jumps up and down, just a little higher when Bucky squeezes his hand. “Don’t go yet.”

            Bucky shakes his hand. “I won’t if you don’t chase me out. Fuck, I… I’ll stay the night if you need me to. I’m great at hide and seek, courtesy of a little sister. No nurse will ever find me. I need you to stay _with me_ , just for a while…” He’s selfish, he can’t possibly ask for all that. Steve is fighting, every breath is another dodged bullet, and every wheeze is him getting up from another graze.

            Steve points at the screen. “’Til the end of the line, for sure.” He chuckles. It hurts, the sweet sound has the impact of an airplane crushing into Bucky. It provokes the tears to sneak out from the corners of Steve’s eyes.

            “Sorry. For doing this to you,” Steve coughs. Bucky listens with his eyes closed, holding the hand Steve isn’t pressing against his face. _Doing this to me_ , Bucky thinks. _Do you even listen to yourself?_

            “Breathe.” Bucky mutters, offering the inhaler by the bed stand, and Steve accepts it, opening his mouth. Bucky counts down to three and presses down. He doubts he’s anywhere near nailing the technique, but it calms Steve down. His pulse slows subsequently, in slow, wave-like motions.

            A stray nurses in the hallway. There’s a wheelchair being strolled out of the building, a car honking, about a stolen parking spot maybe. Time goes on and on and yet it becomes less and less.

            “I pushed everyone away. I had no right to draw you into this,” Steve mumbles after a while. _What do we learn from that? Don’t_ ever _play the martyr._ Bucky smiles, hoping all his sadness could just dissolve. Sometimes, these painful smiles help. Mostly, they don’t.

            Bucky shakes his head. “ _Dumbass._ I’m not held prisoner here, _I like you_. You would have been an awesome friend, I bet.” He _knows,_ but it’s still a step too far to open up that much.

            “You seem quite alright,” Steve replies. He battles for every syllable, and Bucky gives him the time to finish each sentence. If he considers them important enough to go through the hassle, Bucky has to respect that.

            “How much has there been of you when I lo…” No, Bucky can’t say that shit, he’s not (senti)mental. “When I like everything that is left? Is that possible? I want more time, just…”

            Steve takes a deep breath, so Bucky stops babbling. “ _And I ask myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was, how much was mine to keep._ ”

            _Not that much_ , Bucky figures. He presses his forehead against the permanently white knuckles of Steve’s hand.

            “ _You’re my favorite ‘what if’/ you’re my best ‘I’ll never know’_ ”, he hums quietly, since they’re already quoting cheesy shit. Although to be fair, Steve is clearly sober this round.

            “A song?” Steve asks.

            “ _Fourth of July_ , it’s uh…” It’s all his sister’s fault. He never would have been so hooked on them if she hadn’t dragged him to their concert twice. (Same tour, different cities. She was too young to know them pre-hiatus.)

            “Can I listen?” Bucky is overcome with self-consciousness over his music taste all of a sudden, since he has no clue what Steve usually likes. But Steve was right from the start, Bucky won’t deny him _anything_. He fishes for his phone and headphones in his leather jacket. It’s set on moderate volume, and Steve nods along with the beats when it starts. He’s quiet through it, sometimes an impulse shoots down to his hand at some places, when his grasp grows a little tighter around Bucky’s fingers.

_But I’ll guess I never know_

_Where the bridges I have burned never led back home_

_On the fourth of July_

            When Steve cries this time, there are no actual tears. But his breath hitches almost dangerously, and Bucky worriedly takes away the headphones, leaning over Steve and pressing their foreheads together.

            Bucky’s faith had never been strong. He’s doubted God always more with his developing critical mind, but right now, he hates him. And his only left hope is that there is a heaven that will accept Steve and treat him right, or, if Steve would like to believe in it, that there is a next life that is better, so much better than this big joke. Steve deserves it.

            Bucky kisses his cheek. Chaste and probably awkward, something that barely touches the skin. “I wish I would have met you at a different time. We could have gone to a book store, or bought you art supplies… Over coffee, if you like that kind of thing.”

            “If you change your taste in music,” Steve bargains. Bucky laughs, a little too loud. He shivers and hides his face in his hands. Indirectly, Steve still said Yes.

            “Not a fan of punk?”

            “ _Real_ punk, yes.” Where all this gutsiness comes from, Bucky will probably never know. He doesn’t have it in him for a sneaky reply.

            “If we did that,” Steve says after a while, “where would you take me?”

            Bucky’s eyes widen, and he’s fidgeting like this is something set a week from now, something that will actually happen. “I have no idea. I’ll google ‘nice bookshops’ probably,” Bucky admits. “Though I’m sure the best won’t even have websites yet, so I’d probably try to find out which is the best through asking around, and I’d show you around when the day comes, and… I’ll treat you for a book or two, we’d go to a park somewhere. We can have coffee together while we read, or just talk about things. You’d me all about the book. I’d listen, I’d laugh, you’ll probably insult me for something I said or did, and maybe I’ll kiss you again.” Bucky doesn’t realize that he’s been getting quieter towards the end until he barely hears himself. He’s bawling his eyes out like a fucking infant whose toy is being taken away.

            “Is it gonna be a date?” Steve asks, playing with Bucky’s fingers.

            “Only if you want it to be,” Bucky says.

            “Sap.” Steve croaks. What a way to look at it, and Bucky never considered himself romantic, but he doesn’t feel insulted. Again, it’s a Yes from Steve. “Tell me more.”

            Bucky shrugs. “I don’t want you to throw up right now. I’d probably introduce you to my friends, who are pretty great. Nat would like your way of showing ‘affection’, and Clint… doesn’t know how to hate anybody. I might sneak you into college for a day, or we could go somewhere you want. A gallery, any place reachable from Central Station. Your free pick. Maybe just get out of the city, or to the beach.” He looks at Steve, feels his fingers still. Another memory, something Steve’s mother mentioned, shoots through his head. “Coney Island. Get you on the Cyclone, maybe.”

            “Not unless you’d like to see my insides,” Steve protests.

            “I’ll make sure I don’t. Would you go, though?”

            Steve nods. Bucky’s cheeks warm up just the slightest before the ache sinks back in his throat. In theory it sounds all so wonderful. He allows himself to fantasize because he won’t have much but that. And how far from astonishing can be a scene by the bedside?

            “Can you keep talking for a little while? I’m about to drift off, and I don’t think, I…” Before he even sees the panic in Bucky’s face, he adds softly, “I wanna sleep for a little while, and I want you with your sister and that friend. And if… well, it was a pleasure, jerk.” Bucky wants those words to go back where they came from, wants to tell Steve to stuff it, _go fuck himself, shut up_. Reality is so far from Coney Island and bookshops, it’s callous and a little tragic.

            “I can read to you,” he suggests. Steve nods, and Bucky sees his Adam’s apple do a heavy shift. “And I don’t want you to talk, okay?”

            Just this time, Steve does it. Bucky wants him to live on, too, but that’s something even Steve can’t obey to. And if Steve is scared, at least it means he knows what he _doesn’t_ want to die. Bucky -picks something random from the pile – _Tom Sawyer_ – and opens on the first page. He knows it, of course. There’s a strange sense of familiarity ringing with each sentence that he remembers from so many years back, and he isn’t even that far in when Steve is asleep. Bucky does go see Clint and Rikki, because he won’t deliberately drown himself in irrational guilt and with the unadmitted anticipation of Steve’s death.

            Steve is going to die. Soon. And he better befriends that idea soon because grief, as much of an inevitable concept as it is, just hinders one from moving on. And he _has_ to do that.

            Clint and Rikki are fighting over Lucky’s custody when Bucky comes in. Their neighbor just sighs dramatically at his food, like he’s been enduring that for a while now. Bucky smiles apologetically and sits down next to them. Clint is using his lungs very profoundly, telling Bucky how much of an ass he is for making Clint fall second almost the whole time he’s been hospitalized now. Bucky apologizes plenty, knowing fully well he did him wrong. He’s being scolded over and over until Rikki threats to break Clint’s little toe with her tricky piano fingers and he finally resigns to ask about how Steve is doing.

            “You told him?” _Snitch, fucking snitch_. Should have painted her in gold and glued some tiny wings on her for Halloween instead.

            “He concluded you were making out with corpses in the basement… Went pretty detailed about it and I had to spill. Sorry, Buck.” He rubs her back softly, sinking his head on her shoulder.

            “Thanks for traumatizing my little sister,” Bucky scolds.

            “Dude, we were talking about The Walking Dead earlier,” Clint argues. Much to Mr. Grump’s displease, it seems.

            “Gross! Rik, how do you even…?”

            “Your Netflix password is stupid as shit,” she replies easily. Bucky figures he’s nowhere better at saving his private data than anyone else, save for programmers and paranoids. She doesn’t have to know he uses that password for almost everything else, too. Oh fuck, wait, maybe she already does.

            “This is what you do with all of my faith and trust in you,” Bucky says dramatically, and she pushes him lightly.

            “So what’s up with Stevie?” Clint asks again.

            Bucky says the obvious things; cancer, nurse mom, imminent death within a short timespan from now. Clint stays serious through it, says “tough, buddy” and asks him if he wants to talk about it. Not with Clint, not with this other guy in the room. He shakes his head.

            “He has a date with Darcy tomorrow,” Rikki says, shoving the knife right into his back again.

            “Rebecca!” he exhales. “I don’t.”

            “She still with Ian?” Clint asks.

            “Can we _not_?” Bucky tries.

            Rikki pouts. “What _do_ you want to talk about then? Not Steve, not Darcy? Sweaty, grunting men maybe?” There’s an uncomfortable silence between them that even Mr. Grump prefers to sit out without non-verbal commenting. “ _Boxing_ , gentlemen,” she reminds them coolly.

            “Um, Rumlow is still a dick?” Bucky tries and gets the trademark Barnes face from his sister, and Clint gives his best impersonation of it.

            “Kinda the reason we’re all gathered here today, pal.” Clint announces wittily, but winces right after. “Back to hot-for-piano-teacher though, you still like her?”

            “Uh…” Bucky doesn’t know his way around the conversation. “I guess.”

            “But he’s also kinda crushing on Steve.”

            Clint crosses his arms. “Never thought I’d see the day where Bucky’s love life becomes more complicated than mine.” Bucky sighs, thinking about bookshops and coffee and hates that it’s saved for another realm, locked away for this life.

          

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I think I've kinda forgotten about this thing here, to be fair with you guys. _Actually_ I cooked up something concerning Clint and Natasha which I _might_ upload soon. Depends, it's not your typical AU I guess. BUT, trailing off.
> 
> As you can see, we're nearing the end. Thanks for the brave kudos of those who came in here despite having read the warnings. It's very nice to have you here.

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wrote this a couple of months back (in March this year, actually) and I've been dreading to post it. It's a really, really sensitive topic, and I was afraid I was gonna create some cheap Stucky imitation of The Fault in our Stars or worse.
> 
> This is to say, this piece of fiction isn't meant to offend no one. I, much like Bucky, have never lost anyone immediately close to me to say I actually lived this kind of thing through, but I did my best to stay true to the experiences of others and be as mindful and respectful as I can be, hoping to get away with the occasional insensitivity you might consider Bucky's trademark (the bar scene from The First Avenger, anyone?).
> 
> If you give me a chance to play a little with my thoughts and our favorite gay supersoldier pair, you might not find your time wasted. :3
> 
> p.s. The story is already finished and I will upload it within the following weeks, as regularly as possible. ^^


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